Good Man
by Zayz
Summary: Sparrabeth. Even now, Elizabeth thinks that Jack is a good man. Is he? Feel free to R&R.


**A/N: What is this, you ask? Well, I don't know, I answer, because I don't.**

**You know how you sometimes just wake up with this image and a few key phrases in your head, and you suddenly have this idea and you run downstairs and kick your brother off the computer so you can write it?**

**Well, that's what happened to me this morning. So I wrote the weird fic I was thinking of, even if I kind of lost it at the end. It's for Liz (XxIcexX) because she's the only one I post Sparrabeth for. A fact she knows and takes great delight in.**

**Love you, Liz. Even though you get a supremely demented fic, I hope you find some way to like it. That goes for the rest of you too. Remember to review it – even if you hate it.**

**NOTE: This is a pretty mild scene - kind of a sex scene, only not really. You'll see. And there's nothing graphic, which is why it's rated T. I'm just letting you know in case you're squeamish.**

* * *

Hands.

Warm hands.

No, not warm, hot – hot hands, hot hands like fire, hands holding her so tight, so tight she can't get out; hands that burn whatever bit of her they touch.

Wall. Behind her. Wood, cold, hard. Almost a relief, with the fire, all the fire, too much fire.

Dark. Dark everything.

Dark eyes, dark hair, black choking her when she closes her eyes, black thoughts poisoning her mind.

Heat. So much heat.

Her body drums with rich, thick blood, going so sticky like honey, but fast, too fast, making her sweat, robbing her of breath.

She breathes not air, but something else, something so much more concentrated. Rich, husky, manly. Intoxicating but so, so wrong.

Tongue in her mouth. Not just hers though. Heavy tongue, pilfering tongue, sinning tongue. Lips doing a mad dance with her own. Too mad a dance.

The hands she thinks are hers are clutching something. Disconnected. Feels like thick hair. Clutching it like her life depends on it, clutching it as though it will make everything clear for her.

Darkness. Eyes closed. Wood wall. Wrong, perverse thoughts playing too amorously in a mind that feels as rung as clothes squeezed for water. Lips, those lips, that tongue, those hands. Rough hands that make little attempt to disguise their fascination as they run up her thigh, to her bosom, to her everything.

Erratic. Everything's disjointed. Erratic. He overwhelms her to the point where her aroused senses fall off the edge of the cliff and she can't feel anything, anything at all, letting him come back to her one bit at a time, overwhelming her all over again.

She simply can't handle it. It's too much for her. How can a body pulsating with such desire be expected to function properly? How can this be _right_ in the least?

Something deep inside of her keeps clenching, making her shift and squirm, making her wary, making her realize she's here in reality and not in some dream world, and she hears sounds. Grunts. Moans. The grunts are outside of her, spreading out in the immediate area around her ears, sneaking their way into her stomach. But the moans feel more intimate, brushing by the thickness of her throat like wind by overhanging leaves. They're her own.

She moans again, loudly, and she feels those lips smile, but that tongue never moves. Its pace slows to the point where she can't stand it, where she just wants to shake its owner, where she wants to scream, scream, scream because the heat, the dark, the wall, the images, those hands, it's all got her in a lock.

She clenches harder to the hair she's holding. She doesn't scream. She opens her eyes. Eyes so brown they're almost black loom just in front of her vision. She wrenches her lips away and kicks his tongue out, and he backs away a little, not quite so close but still invading any personal space she might have had before him.

And there he is. Jack Sparrow. A smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth, his nose twitching slightly; she must look a fright. She breathes heavily as she gets re-acquainted with the stale cabin air instead of his, and she feels those hands of his explore the curve of her waist the way an unmarried man never should, his touch causing tingling scorch sensations in that region of her body.

He grinds his hips on hers against that wood wall, and she closes her eyes again, every bit of her tense, too tense, the friction of the moment almost making her mad with things she should not want. He's close again, but his face is not in her own; it's on the side of her, with his body pressing, uninhibited, all its weight upon hers.

His bare chest on hers. His heart beating against hers. His legs tangling with hers. Everything matching up perfectly, her enveloped inside him, so much of him. She has more air, but that doesn't mean anything; he's blowing hot like a dry desert wind in her ear, nibbling with a deliberate, but playful seduction on the soft flesh of her earlobe, sometimes grazing his nose and lips against the skin of her neck, the underside of her jaw.

The scene is so real – _he _is so real – that something sharp lacerates her insides, something that could be pain or beauty or perhaps a strange combination of both, and she tilts her neck to give him more of her to work with, heart beating too swiftly behind her bones, eyes flickering open.

"Jack…" She moans his name, a dying wish taking a leap of faith from her well-kissed lips. "Jack…"

He answers with his mouth moving smoothly from her throat to the vast expanse of skin on her chest, his tongue enjoying the journey perhaps more than it should. Then he asks ever so sneakily, "Yes, Bess?"

"Jack, what…what are we doing?" she wants to know, her voice catching as he unbuttons her shirt and fluidly tosses it aside, his fingers playing around her hips.

"I don't know, pet," he responds helpfully. "What do you want us to be doing?"

She purses her lips with frustration, taking a huffy breath through her nose. He ignores this as he kneels down to his knees, removing her breeches from her person, as well as any other clothing possibly keeping him from her bare body.

She allows him to do so without fuss, and even allows him to pull her down on top of him, both of them lying on the floor, as she removes his breeches too and they stare at the other – hers too-deeply fallen in craving and conflict, him calculating, something serious glimmering behind his eyes. The tension is almost tangible, with their heat intermingling in the limited space between them.

They have come this far before, but never have they committed the actual act of making love. Every time he is about to, every time she is going to let him, something stops, and they don't. They just remain laced together, touching but never more, brushing by but never pushing; but the current is different today.

Maybe they will do it. It feels like they will. But will they?

That is the question he is pondering when he looks at her now, the two of them there together, his hands on the small of her back. The question is mutual between them, visible through their eyes and the way the friction magically thinned out when they got to this position instead of intensifying like it should have.

It's clear to him that they want to. He can feel he's ready for it. He _could_, if he wanted, and take some of her to give her some of him. A fair exchange. A set barter. It could happen. It could happen right now, and they could be together in a way they hadn't been before.

But he knows Will's presence is very much in her mind as they take these ganders together; against the wall, on the floor of the deck, in the cabin, on his bed.

She loves Will. It's so beautifully, frustratingly obvious.

She will play his games, kiss him back, let him touch her, but she won't commit the ultimate act of _being _with him.

She can't. She's always been one for promises, making them and keeping them, much like her dear whelp. But when they're together and he's so close to her, closer than anyone's ever gotten, she can't stop him – all she can do is wait for him to make his own decision, because when it's not Will with her, she belongs to him.

So now he must decide whether or not he wants to compromise her. She's open, and he apprehends this in some way he can't explain, so what is he to do?

He's never felt like this before – this hesitancy, this want bordering on true insanity, this need to be with her not just once but again and again. He doesn't understand what she does to him; he's done this hundreds of times, but with her, everything is new, a first.

Time seems to stretch out for him, and suddenly, she looks much nearer to him, her lips parted and her eyes are round as coins, brown, so brown. So he shifts so that he's atop her instead of the other way around, and he leans down, ravaging her mouth, exploratory and hasty.

Caught up in the moment, he pushes her head back against the ground and enjoying all of her – the feel of her body, the unique taste of her lips, the intimacy of the sounds coming from deep inside her. He could explode with the way he's feeling. He's ready now. His body will never forgive him if he doesn't do it _right now_.

But when he's satiated some of his hunger with their kiss, he doesn't do what they thought he would do.

He just gets off of her.

He pulls on his clothes.

He adjusts his jostled trinkets.

He gives her one last look, still naked on the floor, watching, her dirty-blonde hair fanned out on the floor around her head.

And then he leaves for the door.

Doesn't look back, doesn't hesitate, doesn't pause, doesn't do any of that. He just leaves.

--

Several minutes later, he sits at the wheel of his ship, moody and pensive, staring out at the sea with his expression passive and lost in thought. He knows who he's thinking about, but he pretends he doesn't as his thoughts wander – images, frayed fragments of actions, but mostly images.

And then she comes outside, the person he doesn't know he's thinking about, and she stands by him at the wheel, fully dressed, those brown eyes smoldering and enigmatic.

He looks up at her, acting like he's vaguely annoyed when he's really not, and she understands that. So she smiles gently, and leans in, the scent of _her _poisoning and caressing his nose, and she whispers in his ear, "You're a good man, Jack."

He feels the smirk bubbling on his lips like rum, amusing and condemning him, the way it happened last time she made this statement. So when she's about to pull back from him, his hand snakes behind her head and pulls her back to him, surprising her, as he shamelessly nibbles on her ear.

The moment he hears her breath hitch ever so slightly in her throat, feels her body tense, his smirk is much more pronounced against her skin, as he whispers, "All evidence to the contrary, darling."


End file.
